


Dead Dove Do Not Eat

by ellipsometry



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Asphyxiation, Blow Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Tentacle Dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 12:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15557664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/pseuds/ellipsometry
Summary: There's something strange about Oikawa's tinder date.





	Dead Dove Do Not Eat

**Author's Note:**

> [written for sportsfest br3!!](https://sf-afterhours.dreamwidth.org/1614.html?thread=152142#cmt152142)

Tendou Satori is everything imagined and unimagined. He's just as Oikawa expected him to be, and all the things he never imagined. There are too many strange, unexpected things about him for Oikawa to put his finger on what might be the absolute strangest thing. Maybe his laugh -- high and thin, like a cross between an old woman and a teenage boy just hitting puberty. Maybe the way he walks, elasticity in his limbs. The strangest thing might be Tendou’s confidence, which seems to come from somewhere Oikawa can’t fathom, a place bottomless and hidden from human view.

It’s that confidence, probably, that convinced Oikawa to give Tendou a chance in the first place (at least for the purposes of a meaningless one night stand.)

“You're cuter than your profile pic,” is the first thing Tendou says when they meet up, followed by, “Actually I don't know if that's true. I just read an article in a magazine that said to say that.”

Oikawa frowns, “You're uglier than your picture, which honestly wasn't great to start with.”

It's a cheap sting. But Tendou’s eyes light up, which is. Weird. Weirder than the unsettling, toxic waste green of Tendou’s eyes, weirder than the rips in his shirt, held together with safety pins and butterfly clips. Weirder than the curve in Tendou’s spine, the way his chest dips toward the floor and his neck cranes up like a grotesque sculpture.

“You're perfect,” is what Tendou says. And Oikawa has no idea what he means, but he's not wrong.

They skip the dance floor because, well, of course they do. As much as Oikawa loves to dance, that's not what's brought him here tonight. Besides, he gets the feeling that Tendou On The Dancefloor is a horrifying sight.

No kissing. No talking. No unnecessary things. That's what Oikawa had laid out to Tendou in their brief tinder messages, a short contract of sorts.

 _you sound like a salaryman toorukun, not sexy at all!!_ Tendou had responded, _but ur cute so I think I can abide_

Except, “What did I fucking say about kissing?”

The moment Tendou gets Oikawa alone in the single-stall bathroom at the back of the club, he descends upon his mouth, lips sliding dirtily against Oikawa’s own. Oikawa tastes whiskey and frowns.

“I thought I'd change your mind,” Tendou says, voice breathy with laughter. He's holding his mouth a centimeter above Oikawa's, a trail of saliva connecting them. Oikawa says nothing, and Tendou waits. For permission, apparently.

“Just, fuckin--”

This time, it's Oikawa who pushes up toward Tendou, letting the other man pry open his mouth with his tongue. Calloused fingers grip at Oikawa's chin, holding his jaw open, chin dropped down against his collar bone, leaking drool onto his chest.

There's something pleasantly unpleasant about the way Tendou kisses -- if you could even call it that. Oikawa is a passive partner, something for Tendou to play with, exploring and fucking his mouth with his tongue, one large hand tweaking Oikawa's nipple through his shirt, the other spanning his lower back, pressing a knee between Oikawa's parted thighs. Oikawa’s voice is traitorous, wet moans and whimpers leaking out from the corner of his mouth, blush spreading down his face and dusting the top of his shoulders. 

It’s embarrassing how quickly Oikawa gets hard -- but when he grinds his thigh against the crotch of Tendou’s pants, he doesn’t feel any kind of hardness at all. That’s annoying, to say the least.

“L-Let me--” Oikawa’s voice is garbled, mouth still pried open by Tendou’s tongue. He pulls back, takes a deep breath, “Let me suck you off.”

“You’re eager,” Tendou chuckles, voice low and hoarse as his lips move against Oikawa’s jaw. He’s panting, out of breath, which is probably to be expected after he just sucked the life out of Oikawa’s mouth without pausing to come up for air. Tendou might have a deficient sense of self-preservation -- well, at least they have that in common, Oikawa thinks.

Oikawa is already moving to kneel down, but Tendou -- less out of impatience and more out of a pure desire to fuck with him -- shoves at Oikawa’s shoulders, pushing him down roughly. Oikawa’s knees buckle and he drops to the sticky bathroom floor, hands bracing on Tendou’s thin thighs, fingernails digging into jean fabric.

“Fuck--!” Oikawa clenches his teeth, hissing as Tendou grips at the roots of his bangs with thin fingers, guiding Oikawa’s face toward his crotch. Tendou is, blessedly and unfortunately, every bit the asshole in bed that he promised he would be in his and Oikawa’s frantic 3AM sexts from the night before.

“Tooru-chan,” Tendou sing-songs, “You were the one who wanted to suck me off, weren’t you?”

As always, Oikawa has a witty retort ready. Or, at least, he _did._ But that’s when he feels _it,_ and all prior thoughts in his brain go out the window.

“What the fuck is in your pants?” Oikawa’s arches away, though the hand in his hair keeps his face firmly planted in front of Tendou’s crotch. Tendou’s crotch that is _moving_ \-- moving like it’s alive, or like Tendou has a small creature tucked in his fly.

“Something out of this world, baby,” Tendou says, though there is a new trepidation in his tone. He pulls his hands away from Oikawa, running his hands nervously through his own hair instead. This is it -- Oikawa is free. He could run, leave, forget this whole weird night ever happened. 

Or.

Or he could frantically unzip Tendou’s jeans, whipping them down around Tendou's knees with a kind of manic curiosity.

Oikawa takes the latter path, and is well-rewarded for his curiosity. In place of an ordinary dick, Tendou has what can only be described as, well, a tentacle. Dusty pink, a bit darker than Tendou’s skin, undulating against a bed of curly red pubic hair. It’s the same length as any old cock would be, but thin at the head and widening as it goes down, reaching a fist-sized width near the bottom before tapering back down toward Tendou’s balls. Small ridges run down the underside, growing wider and shallower toward the base of Tendou’s cock.

Oikawa has about three seconds of speechlessness, eyes locked on Tendou’s monstrous dick, before he comes to his senses, “Maybe warn a guy?!” he shrieks, voice pitching up several octaves.

Ye, Oikawa stays put, doesn’t make any movement to back away. Unlike Tendou, so naturally slippery and ephemeral he feels like he could clip the floor at any moment, Oikawa feels completely grounded, stuck and secure in the choices he’s made to land him here. Here, looking at Tendou’s fucking tentacle dick moving and wriggling just a few inches away from his face.

Tendou tilts his neck back, dropping his mouth in a wide, open laugh, so that from Oikawa’s point of view he looks like just one giant jutting chin with a mane of red hair. He’s so ugly, Oikawa thinks. I want to suck his dick so bad, is his next thought.

“I forget it’s not, like, normal,” Tendou says, no apology in his voice, “I’d apologize, but I think you like it.”

Oikawa sniffs, but doesn’t argue. He’s already hard as a rock in his pants, and the way Tendou’s dick moves, like it’s inviting him to touch, isn’t exactly hurting Oikawa’s boner. He reaches a hand out tentatively, touching the warm flesh with just the pads of his fingers, then wrapping a hand delicately around the thick middle, “Haven’t made my mind up yet.”

“I think you have, actually,” Tendou traces his foot up the line of Oikawa’s inner thigh, and Oikawa’s hips twitch up when the toe of Tendou’s show hits his crotch, pressing down just a bit too hard on his cock, “No one’s ever actually put me in their mouth, you know?”

“You--” Oikawa chokes on his own spit, hand squeezing reflexively around Tendou’s cock. He keeps it like that, maybe as a punishment, or retaliation, feeling the strange springiness of the flesh, the aggressive pulse against his palm. Tentatively, Oikawa opens his hand, then closes it again, squeezing tighter this time, watching with relish the way Tendou’s hips buck forward, mouth dropped open in a silent moan.

“You’ve fucked someone with this?” Oikawa finishes his thought, spreading his folded thighs and settling in, “How’s that even work?”

“S-Same as usual,” Tendou says, voice stuttering as Oikawa attempts to stroke his cock. It’s odd work -- the damn thing won’t stop moving, and Oikawa has to grip it with both hands, now, fingers stroking the sensitive flesh.

“But,” Oikawa pauses, swallows the spit pooling in his mouth, “No one’s given you a blowjob?”

Tendou grins, “You’d be the first.”

And that’s really all the convincing Oikawa needs. He loves being the first, the best, the only. He thinks back to the feeling of Tendou’s tongue down his throat, the breathless helplessness, and wonders if sucking his cock would be just like that. Just like that but _more_ \-- more helpless, more desperate, more overwhelming.

This time, when Tendou reaches down to tangle a hand in Oikawa’s hair, it’s gentle, guiding rather than forcing. Oikawa leans into his palm, holding Tendou’s dick as still as he hand with both hands before taking the head into his mouth.

It’s _bitter_ is the first thing Oikawa thinks, swallowing abruptly as a wave of precome floods his mouth. His tongue traces the slit at the thin head of Tendou’s cock, just for a second before it slides away, probing the entrance to Oikawa’s throat, tracing patterns on the roof of his mouth.

“Don’t give up now, Tooru-chan,” Tendou sings, thrusting shallowly into Oikawa’s mouth. His cock has a mind of its own -- or maybe it responds to Tendou’s own desires. Either way, Oikawa finds his cheeks bulging with cock, and quickly about half of it now lodges itself in his mouth.

There’s no need to pull out the usual tricks Oikawa uses for blowjobs: bobbing and licking and stroking. Instead, Oikawa is left to keep his jaw open and his tongue pressed down flat, letting Tendou’s cock use his throat, take what it wants from him. Tendou occasionally pulls Oikawa down further on his length, fingernails scrabbling against Oikawa’s scalp, until Oikawa finally drops his hands, reaching down to press a heel against his own cock, hard and wet and straining against the zipper of his jeans.

“Take it out,” Tendou commands, voice rough with arousal, “Touch yourself for me.”

Oikawa just nods, fingers stuttering against his waistband, finally unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, pulling his cock out just enough to get a hand on it, thumb swiping at the head. He gasps -- partly in relief, partly because the thin head of Tendou’s cock has finally hit Oikawa’s gag reflex, tickling against it with precise movements.

“Fuck, fuck-- _yes_ ,” Tendou brings his other hand up to tangle in Oikawa’s hair, lodging him firmly against his cock. Oikawa can hardly get a breath in, mouth leaking a litany of small gagging noises, a staccato beat to go with the wet squelching wet noises of Tendou’s dick squirming in his mouth.

It’s impossible to fit the entire thing in Oikawa’s mouth at once, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. Oikawa braces himself with one hand against the floor, arching his neck up, dropping his jaw, lips stretching around the widest part of Tendou’s cock, tongue tracing against the flat ridges on the underside. Tendou grunts, doubling over, hips stuttering against Oikawa’s face.

“Y-You--” Tendou pauses, looking down at Oikawa with awe, taking in the tears forming in the corner of his big brown eyes, the drool dripping from his mouth and pooling in the hollows of his collar bone, “You’ll take whatever I give you, won’t you?”

Oikawa whimpers, noise muffled by Tendou’s dick tickling the sides of his throat. It’s absolutely true, and Oikawa flushes dark red with embarrassment.

“How about…” Tendou straightens up, looming over Oikawa once again, palm running down the side of Oikawa’s face, feeling the bulge of his cheek straining, before finally pinching Oikawa’s nose closed, cutting off his air supply.

“There we go.”

Oikawa’s spine goes rigid, and he reaches out to grip at Tendou’s thighs again to steady himself, suddenly rudderless, choking on the slick appendage assaulting his throat, fucking his face with alien abandon. It might be because he’s hyperfocused on it, or maybe because Tendou is close to coming, but he can feel Tendou’s heartbeat in the pulsating of his dick, an aggressive thrum that resonates throughout Oikawa’s body. 

It takes less than five seconds without air for Oikawa to come, so overwhelmed and overstimulated that all he has to do is squeeze down on his own cock before he’s spilling onto the dirty tile floor. Tendou makes some remark Oikawa can’t hear, releasing his nose and letting a cold breath of air enter Oikawa’s lungs -- he nearly blacks out from how dizzy it makes him, oxygen hitting his brain the second he starts to come down from his orgasm.

It’s so much that at first Oikawa hardly notices Tendou squeezing at the base of his own cock, holding it as steady as possible in Oikawa’s mouth before coming with a strangled cry. Tendou’s come is, as to be expected, different. Strange. It’s thinner, more copious, choking Oikawa as it floods his mouth, spilling out and dripping onto his chest, his thighs. Tendou must be pleased at the sight of his come marking Oikawa, because he pulls his cock out of Oikawa’s mouth and slaps it against Oikawa’s cheek, leaving a stain of come there on the soft flesh.

As soon as it started, it’s over.

Oikawa feels only half-conscious, barely noting the way Tendou cleans himself up, tucks his strange dick back into his jeans. He makes Oikawa drinks some water, laughing when is spills down Oikawa’s chin.

“I’ll head out first,” Tendou finally says, still a bit winded but far more composed than Oikawa. He looks normal -- or, as normal as he ever looked, “Let’s do this again sometime. I’ll fuck you next time, kay?”

He grins, winks once at Oikawa, and then slides out the door like it’s nothing. Oikawa hardly registers his words, eyes still glazed over as he comes down from the high of his orgasm. Eventually he’ll clean himself up, get up and go home and attempt to rationalize his own strange behavior, maybe over a pint of ice cream and a documentary on Netflix. 

For now, though, he’s still kneeled on the dirty floor, knees spread obscenely, softening cock hanging out of his jeans, come on his thighs and his chest and his face and in his hair. It’s strange, to say the least. Maybe not as strange as Tendou, or his tentacle dick. Not as strange as deciding to fuck a stranger in a public bathroom in the first place.

And definitely not as strange as the way Oikawa smiles to himself, hoping he’ll see Tendou again soon.


End file.
